honor, courage, and commitment
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Matt runs into a stranger at the gym. (In which Matt meets Steve Rogers, and doesn't have to recognize him to have a rather profound exchange. Pre-season 1 DD; post-Avengers).
**A/N: I have been wanting to write this crossover for a while. I hope it turned out OK! It's set just post-Avengers, for Steve, and pre-season 1, for Matt.**

The gym isn't empty when he comes in, and he draws up short, at first. It's after hours, and the heat of the lights has faded; they're off.

"Hello?" Matt says.

There's a scuffle and a shuffle from the other side of the room, and Matt readies himself. But the guy either changes his plan or recovers from his surprise or both. Maybe it's the blind thing. Anyway, Matt hears his heartrate slow.

"Oh, I'm sorry," a voice says. Polite, deep, well-enunciated, and a little relieved. Not a threat, Matt decides. At least not yet. "Didn't realize there was another customer."

Matt smells sweat, aftershave. He can hear the other guy's breathing, the strain of fabric over muscle. This guy's fit, but he's tired. That must be why the lights are off.

"Long day?" Matt asks. He's usually up for a friendly conversation with a stranger—unless the stranger is beating the crap out of him—but tonight he's just…beat. Foggy's been on him all week to go out, really celebrate graduation now that the Manhattan crisis has died down, but Matt's been busy with pulling the threads of the criminal underworld a little too tight. It feels like there's a net around him.

The other man gives a crisp, short chuckle. "It's been a long century," he says, and Matt nods his assent. He feels around for a bag, and more self-conscious than usual, starts a few warm-up punches. To his relief, the guy doesn't just stand there and watch him, wondering how a blind guy can handle it. The sound of dull thumping spreads between them for a while.

There's something rhythmic, almost tactical in the way the other guy punches. Matt listens in for a few seconds, then asks, "You a soldier?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

Matt half-smiles, gestures to his eyes with fingers stiffened by the wrapping around his knuckles. "The—you know. Good hearing. You punch like you've been trained."

"I served," the man says. His voice is quiet. "Pretty recently, actually. Trying to find a way to get…re-involved."

Matt nods. It's funny, he can communicate with a nod, but they mean nothing to him unless he's really, really listening. "Most days, I'm just trying to do what I can for my city."

"Not all of us have that luxury." It's almost a rebuke, and it's true, Matt's never quite thought of his single-minded focus as a gift. He imagines trying to spread his reach larger, take in more and more and more, and it makes his knees weak.

Maybe he's weak.

At last he manages, "You from around here?" because there was an undercurrent of sadness in the guy's voice, of memory.

"Brooklyn. Born and raised."

"Nice."

"It was a different place back then."

Matt can't agree, from his own experience. The gym smells the same, sweat and dust, and blood feels the same (too thick and too real) under his fingertips as it did that night in the alley after the big Murdock fight. The best he can offer is, "The people though, they stay the same."

He hears fists hitting bag, quick and sharp. It goes on for a while and Matt listens to the accelerated heartbeat, the quick breathing. This is a man holding a lot of things back.

"Were you around for the mess that just went down?" Matt asks, even-toned. He's far from winded, and the consistent increase in stamina is encouraging.

There's a pause. "I was."

"Bad business."

"Yeah."

The silence stretches out again. Matt wonders if he's said something wrong—he doesn't want to offend the guy, who seems decent, but he's dog tired. He packs up a little earlier than usual. The other guy's still punching, hitting the bag like it's going to give him back something he's lost.

"Goodnight," Matt says, and the punching stops.

"Goodnight," the other guy answers. "Nice to have a friendly conversation. Don't get many of those these days."

"Any time," Matt says. "I'm a lawyer—we don't get many either."

The man laughs. "There's a lot of ways to serve," he says, and Matt thinks that's good of him (and more helpful than he might know), when he's obviously struggling with some self-doubt himself.

In answer, Matt raises a hand. "You'll find yours," he says, and closes the door of the gym behind him.


End file.
